


Mirror Reflect'd

by Adi_mou



Series: Mirror Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Mirror Universe, dark au, darksherlock, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adi_mou/pseuds/Adi_mou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London was different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baker Street- There

London was different.

The air tasted wrong, there wasn’t any hum of conversation or the sounds of a great city going to work on a Monday morning. No rush of traffic, no tourists blocking her path to take pictures of the buildings she passed every day. Just a subdued race of people with lifeless, shifty eyes, walking quickly on muted steps, glaring at her before scurrying out of her way.

A darker, damper, foggier London than she was used to.

She had been told not to wander, but it isn’t wandering if she knows where she’s going, is it?

She flinches at the sight of the ugly, graffiti coated wall where a cheery sandwich shop should be.  In another world, there is a sandwich shop, and the door next to it is equal parts polished and worn, the lettering on it glimmers, and sometimes, if you were very very lucky, you could catch a glimpse of a great man who lives there.

But this isn’t that world, the door next to wall looks far from polished, the lettering has fallen off, leaving only a rusted _2_ and an inverted, equally rusted _b_ hanging on for dear life.

She wonders if the address is now _2 p_ , because that’s what it says on the door.

She pushes the old door gingerly, but it still creaks as it opens. The sound reverberates harshly around the dingy landing lit only by a sad light bulb, carrying out its duty of bathing the landing in a dirty yellow light.

No one comes to greet her; all the doors on this floor are boarded up.

There is no one here on this floor, except the termites and the rats scurrying through the walls.

A moth hits the bulb as she starts climbing the rickety, termite infested stairs. The light goes out immediately as it is parted from the loose circuitry.

* * *

 

The door on the second floor isn’t boarded up, but Molly can smell rotting wood as she turns the doorknob. A damp smell assaults her nose as she steps into a room, where in another world, there would be a roaring fire, a soft leather sofa and two lovely armchairs, and a brilliant man by the window, teasing hauntingly beautiful music from a violin.

In this world, however, there is no warm fire, no leather sofa and armchairs, and certainly no brilliant man by the window. The fireplace is sad and empty, and by it there is a hard backed chair, strict and giving no hope of comfort.

The scant grey sunlight coming in from the window is the only source of light in the living room of what was once 221b.

The archway that leads to the kitchen is dark, and Molly can hear the sounds of rats, their nails _tap tap tapping_ on the floor as they hurry to stay out of the way of the human intruder.

She sits on the chair and tucks in her legs under the seat, in a vain effort of keeping them away from the rats, in case they decide to come her way.

She sits on the chair, tugs her jacket around her in an attempt to keep warm, and waits.

* * *

 

Not ten minutes later, she hears the door open, and footsteps stomping up the stairs. She stands just as the door is shoved open.

“Have you finally decided to end this childish game?” he asks, looking around the flat in disdain and disgust.

She stares at him blankly for a while, her heart lurching despite her knowing that this is not the man she loves, regardless of what he looks like. And yet, she drinks in his familiar features greedily.

He notices her gaze and smirks, coldly and cruelly, his features are marred and Molly’s fantasy breaks. He takes a step towards her but she takes an equal step back.

The smirk on his face dies, and he stops in his path. “Molly,” he starts.

“No,” she says. “No, I have no decided to end _this childish game.”_

He scowls. “Then why have you brought me to this slum?”

“I want to negotiate.”

He laughs, deeply and genuinely, and she hates him for it.

“Why should I negotiate?” he chuckles, dragging the chair to his side and lounging on it, legs crossed. “I could wipe out your merry band in one fell swoop.”

“Then why-,”she hissed.

“It is foreplay, my love,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “A very arousing game of hide-and-seek you have been playing with me, Molly.”

He stands and towers over her, crowding her in until her back hits the mantelpiece.

“ _I hate you,”_ she snarls, her face contorting in rage. “Thousands have died, and all you care about is a fucking-,”

“All I care about is _fucking_ you,” he growls, and she flinches at the vulgarity. He sneers.

“Don’t use such vulgar words with me, Molly, because if you knew what was in my mind right now-,” he grabs at her and throws her against the wall, before pulling her flush against him, “you would blush, little kitten.”

Rage nearly blinds her and she shoves her elbow into his gut before going for the gun holster on her hip. She screams on frustration when she finds it empty.

He laughs again, and she sees her gun being flung across the room and disappearing into the darkness of the kitchen.

“ _Fuck you,”_ she hisses as he pushes her against the wall again, and she can feel him, hard against her. “You are a vile, evil, loathsome-,”

“The kitten has grown some claws, I think,” he says, and she wants to scratch his eyes out and _show_ him her claws, because she hates him, and she will hate him even if he bears Sherlock’s face and name.

He is not Sherlock.

“I’m not a bloody kitten,” she snarls, her legs kicking and her nails digging into his leather jacket.

“Of course you’re not, you cut up people for a living,” he says distractedly, before nipping at her neck. “Gods, I missed your taste.”

“ _Stop, stop, stop,”_ she breathes out, ignoring the way her body was reacting and hoping he would not notice said reactions. But he was Sherlock Holmes, in face, name and _intellect_ and he _always notices._

He pulls back enough to rest their foreheads together, their breaths mingling.

“ _You can stop this, Molly,”_ he whispers. “Just stop fighting so much, just _accept me_.”

“I’d rather die.”

* * *

 

He flinches back from her, _flinches_ , as if she has burnt him.  She thinks she sees anguish in those grey eyes of his, but before she can blink that anguish is gone. Maybe it was never there in the first place.

Cold eyes, cold and unforgiving as steel glare back at her, his face is blank, impassive and neutral. “Well then. You’ve made your feelings very clear to me, my love.”

_He has no right to call her that, that was her Sherlock called her when they were alone and entwined and together._

“My offer of negotiations still stand.” She says, hoping her voice sounded business-like, she ignores the stinging sensation of the bites he made on her neck.

“Want to hear my offer, Molly?” he says, and the ice in his voice makes her shiver. “I want you. And I know you want me, Molly. Ah-, now don’t lie,” he says, an infuriating smile on his face, he raises a finger and Molly’s retort dies in her throat. “You want me, and you can have me. I’m willing to let your group of traitors live, but only if you give yourself over to me and stop this foolish _quest_ of yours of finding the rifts.”

“The rifts are closed,” he continues slowly, as if relishing the words. “They are closed, and you can never go back.”

Her hands clench, she wants her gun in her hand. _It scares her sometimes, how easily she wants to kill, how easily she can kill. She is no longer Molly Hooper, pathologist of Bart’s, London. She’s changed and she blames him for it._

“You will lose, my love, if you go down this path of destruction,” he says. “I will give you till midnight. Think about it.”

And with that, he leaves, a flap of the leather coat, and a swirl of dust, out of the rotting remains of 221B Baker Street.


	2. Baker Street- Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, here it is. The final installment. Yup, WE ARE DONE.

London was different.

London was different  _without her._

He had never, even with his level of mental capacity, noticed how much of a difference the absence of one person—one person he  _caredabout_  ( _loved?)_ —would affect his view of an entire city so much.

Even when he had been in hiding, fighting to clear his name, he had not felt this level of loneliness and despair. He had known where every person he cared about  _(loved?)_ had been.

But now, she was gone.  _Gone._

He had opened his supposedly none existent heart to her, let her sweep into every room of his mind-palace, and she had gone. Gone somewhere he could not find her.

He would have understood her leaving him ( _he was incapable of being able to give her what she wanted, what she deserved, he knew she was going to leave him someday)_ had she not taken something from his chest with her.

* * *

_(Heartache was supposed to be a mental condition, brought about by losing someone one cared for._ _[_ _Loved?_ _]._ _It was not meant to be physical._ )

There was an absolute  _ache_  on the left side of his chest. Diagnosis; he was perfectly fine, physically. Except he  _hurt,_ he wanted out of this, this pathetic stew of feelings and  _caring_. He wanted to forget her brown eyes and how she felt beneath him, moving and trembling in the most wondrous ways, ways that silenced his ever racing brain; silenced it better than morphine ever could, and stimulated it better than cocaine ever could.

She had been gone for two years, and still Sherlock Holmes remembered exactly what Molly Hooper tasted like, rain-soaked and adrenaline pumping through her veins.

* * *

He remembered the first time he kissed her, the first time he experienced the salvation inside her.

It had been raining, and they were running through the unknown back alleys of India, soaked to the skin with blood and mud. His mind had been racing, exhilarated with the thrill of the chase, of finally being able to put a face and name on the man the villagers all called "the Tiger God". Sebastian Moran was so close, Sherlock could almost envision being back in London, back in Baker Street, back  _home._

They were back to their dingy, one storied bedsit, when Molly had looked up at him, her eyes wide and sparkling, her eyeliner had become smudged, giving her eyes a smoky look, making them seem larger and brighter than normal.

His blood had been singing, the adrenaline rush still high, and she had licked her lips, her sweet, pink tongue almost teasing him. His limbs had acted on their own, he had pulled her close and tight, her soft body with its delightful curves an intriguing contrast to his lean, firm one- she had tasted of the rain as she kissed him back with equal fervor, her small hands and graceful fingers tugging at his wet curls.

He had thrown her across the hard, wooden bed without grace, the dirty blankets that covered it falling to the floor, as he hovered above her, resting his elbows next to her sides, his knees spreading her open as he knelt between her thighs. There was an exquisite spot on her neck that tasted like rain and  _woman_  and he could not get enough of it; he had nipped and sucked and kissed that spot until it bruised, and he took a surprising amount of pride in it, her moans causing pleasure to coil deep inside him.

She was  _his_ and his only.

She had straddled him as soon as they had gotten their wet, sticky clothes off, and laid her own claim on him; themere thought had his hips jerking and made him harder than he thought possible.

The pleasure had intensified a thousand fold when he finally pushed into her, her heels digging into his arse, their bodies moving in rhythm, and he just could not get enough of her, he wanted  _more._

So he had cupped her face and kissed her, swallowing her moans as she tightened around him, making him see stars as his mind was wiped blank.

* * *

There had been an increase in disappearances, starting from around the time Molly had gone.

He had latched onto those cases, because Sherlock Holmes did not believe in coincidences, but they had all been dead ends. In his frustration, he had taken 221B apart, shooting hole after hole into the walls until John Watson had arrived to tackle him to the ground and wrench the gun from him.

The look of  _sympathy_ John had given him afterwards had nearly made him vomit.

He did not want sympathy. He wanted Molly.

* * *

He remembered when she had rushed towards him, ignoring the looks John and the rest of NSY gave her when she threw herself into his arms.

He had winced as she jostled ribs that were less than slightly bruised, but he had kept his arms around her nonetheless, feeling the material of her cherry-covered dress. ( _How many cherry-themed_ _clothes_ _did she own?)_

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were back, oh god, I was so worried,  _Mycroft wouldn't tell me anything_ ," she had sobbed into his coat, and he had buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, he hadn't been this close to her since India and her solidity seemed to be the only thing anchoring him to Earth at that moment.

"John killed Moran," he had said stupidly, and she had clutched him tighter. "He tried to kill me but John shot him." Molly had sobbed even harder, tightening her hold until he had to bite back a groan of pain. He did not ask her to relent in her hold, though, because he had felt that if Molly Hooper had let him go at that moment, he would  _fall_ and he would not get back up again _._

* * *

"You are not pretty, Molly," he had whispered to her when they had danced in a quiet corner at John and Mary's reception, him feeling utterly foolish. "You are beautiful."

He now regretted not telling her that more often.

* * *

_**NUMBER BLOCKED** _ _-received 00 34 am_

_Heard you lost your mouse. Let's have dinner._

_**Delete message?** _

_**Message deleted.** _

* * *

The grandfather clock at the second floor landing needed a tuning. The arrhythmic chime of the clock, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night was giving him a headache.

He seats back into the leather armchair, staring at the burning embers of the fireplace, counting down the chimes to midnight. Two years since he last saw her. And yet he still remembered everything about her, her taste, the softness of her skin, the nervous giggle she made in times of stress-

Cocaine would be marvelous right now, he mused. Or morphine. Morphine was better- morphine made everything stop, made him stop thinking, morphine numbed his traitorous brain from feeling pain. But he couldn't. He couldn't sink back into that habit again, the horrid feeling of being dependant on that dose of drug.

_Ah but he already was dependant, wasn't he? He was dependant on a mousy pathologist for his happiness, and it was worse than any drug._

Work no longer helped, and it made fear bury it's fangs into his heart. Work was what mattered, without that he was nothing. But  _fucking_ sentiment; he had no room for it, and yet it crept in, like that woman, into every room of his mind palace, so that to delete her would be like deleting every part of himself.

A sudden step on the stairs makes his ears prickle. There is someone here.

He smells her before he sees her, a clean, clear smell of lemons and vanilla. Then he bolts upright, standing in front of the fireplace and staring at the woman at the doorway.

"I thought you left me," he states, even if his heart is thundering in his ears, he casts his eyes over her, she's different, she holds herself differently.

He realizes suddenly that he cannot read her. He never could properly read Molly, but this- he hadn't drawn such a blank since he first met The Woman.

"I would never leave you," she says, her voice soft and just as he remembered. She takes two small steps towards him, her leather boots clacking on the floor, and then he rushes forward to take her into his arms, to crush her mouth with his. She runs her fingers through his curls, and he grips her hips tight enough to bruise. His tongue is just caressing hers when he jumps back, pushing her away from him.

"You're not real. You can't be real."

Yes, a dream, that's what this is. He must be dreaming, and in his dream state, he brought up a fantasy of Molly, of Molly wearing all black and leather boots, him dreaming would explain why he couldn't read her.

Dream Molly bites back a sob. "Yes, yes I am a dream."

 _She's lying,_ his brain whispers to him.

"Why-wh-you're  _lying,"_ he says in utter disbelief, if she's lying then this is real, Molly is real-

"Because I will be gone when you wake up, Sherlock," she cups his face in her warm hands. "I will be gone soon. I don't want you to hurt anymore, darling."

" _Molly-,"_

She kisses him furiously, like she is trying to commit every corner of his mouth, the shape of his lips, his taste, to memory. She withdraws slightly, and when she talks, their lips brush against each other.

"Know that wherever I am, Sherlock, that I am  _safe._  And know that I  _love you_ and no one,  _no one and not even you_ will change that."

He grabs at her hands. She is not making any sense but one thought is occupying his mind right now. "No,  _no,_ " he says desperately, "No, if you are real, I am not letting you go, Molly-,"

She wrenches away from him with a strength he did not know she had. She takes his hand and gingerly presses a kiss to it. "I love you, I loved you since the moment you walked into the morgue. So know that I would never leave you if I had the choice." She's crying freely now, but he cannot move, it is as if an electric current is holding him in place. "Don't look for me, Sherlock. Live your life like you are supposed to."

And with that she steps back from him and runs towards the stairs. He follows, because he would be an idiot to let her go, this woman who  _loved_ him and he  _loved her back._

He could not have been ten seconds behind her, but all that greets him at the stairwell is darkness. And she is  _gone._  
  
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes sinks down to the floor, and simply  _breaks._

* * *

_Epilogue_

She is beautiful in the moonlight, a glow settling on her pale, naked skin. He is mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, her kiss swollen lips, and her elegant neck. He grasps her wrist, held them above her head and thrust slowly back into her, knowing that drawing this out was torturing her. He grins as she moans and jerks her hips, trying to generate more friction between their bodies.

He buries his face at her neck, sinking his teeth into the soft, sweet flesh there, ensuring that there would be a bruise in the morning; letting her wrists go in the process. She digs her nails into the muscles of his shoulders before she scratches a path down his chest, leaving painful red tracks on his skin. He feels a single tear fall from her cheek onto his.

"My Molly, mine, mine,  _mine_ ," he growls as raises his head to ravage her mouth, drilling her into the soft mattress as he pounds into her brutally until she clenches around him.

She throws her head back and moans out his name,  _his name and not his stupid counterpart's,_ and that thought is enough to send him spiraling into blessed relief.

He ignores the tear stains on her cheeks as he pulls her to him later, curling an arm around her protectively.

He  _won,_ he won this wondrous woman, and he planned on keeping her.

Whether she wanted him to or not.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I haven’t been feeling very good mentally for the past couple of days. It’s the oh-my-god-my-results-are-in-three-days-if-I-fail-I-will-have nothing-to-live-for stress. So basically, I’ve just hid under the bed, and watched the Sherlock S3 preview and Thor: Dark World trailer again and again.  
> This fic is also giving me a lot of stress headaches, even if Lono, bless her golden soul, has been doing a lot of handholding. This chapter got rambly and weird, so I broke it off, and made into two separate chapters. The format will work better this way.  
> I’ll try to update soon. I promise.  
> But thank you, thank you for all the support you have shown me and this fic! Leave a comment or kudos or reviews and keep me motivated!  
> Love,  
> Adi xo


End file.
